


Baby Sling

by Kit_SummerIsle



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Hatchlings, M/M, Mating Cycles, bayverse, heat - Freeform, lots of hatchlings, mentioned hatchling death, slight dub-con, sort of sticky interface
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-19 23:18:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are hatchlings in DOTM. They had to come from somewhere. What if they came from... Megatron?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came from a [tumblr idea](http://kitsummer.tumblr.com/post/139134418653/radio-cybertron-kitsummer-radio-cybertron) of Bayverse Megatron carrying the hatchlings (the ones in DOTM) in that tarp he wears, as a sling. It caught me the moment it was suggested that Starscream was one of the sires and that Megs carried all the little ones we see on the film. I made their number even more and made up the interface involved in making them - Bayverse gives one a lot of leeway in that. It was fun. :-)

Megatron growled low and deep, the sound even more coarse than usual for his injuries and Starscream scuttled back a few steps from the towering form. The red dust billowed around them in puffs of clouds and together with the trembling heat in the air it made hard to see more than a few meters or discern many details. The wind swept the dust across them and Starscream cursed silently as it covered his finish and caked into seams. The dark metal of Megatron was nearly all reddish brown, while his own… wouldn’t even bear mentioning.

“My Lord…” – he spoke up again, long legs bending, folding to make him look shorter, less of a threat, his scratchy tone well-oiled from long practice – “Maybe we should choose a different place than this…” – he waved around a long arm disgusted – “… this dusty Pit?”

Megatron growled again, but this time Starscream stood his ground. He was far enough if his Master swiped at him he could safely duck, what with the hatchlings secured on his frame, in that… tarp thing. He wouldn’t risk a full-speed movement with the little ones all over him.

“Shut up Starscream! We stay here, because I say so!”

“But the dust, Master! It…”

“You will bear it like a mech, not the snivelling coward that you are!”

Starscream snarled and risked a step closer. A couple of the tiny helms that remained visible turned his way, dim, red pinpoints seeking out the source of the sound among the susurration of the wind and the red haze of the dust.

“But Master… I meant… I worry about the hatchlings!”

“They will live! They are mine and they will survive!”

One side of the tarp wrapped around his torso and one shoulder-guard flapped and the jet saw the really tiny ones. The ones Megatron has not shown him yet, the ones too weak or damaged to clamp their tiny claws on the dark, rusted metal and hold onto him. Like the others did as the Decepticon leader moved around, lurking under his armour, chittering as he spoke, like tiny, weak echoes, popping up over plates occasionally if they felt adventurous. The ones with so dim optics they appeared deactivated already, only their carrier’s warm frame and spark-energy keeping them alive, only a ragged, dirty, human-made tarp kept them together, warm, and safe. None of the hatchling was big really, the helms he saw were barely the size of his optics – but these ones were truly, frighteningly tiny. 

Starscream wringed together his servos, wings flapping uneasily. He wanted, no, he craved to go closer, to touch tiny helms, to see little wing-nubs, to hold them and nurture them… the jet snarled and shook his helm, snapping the mask shut. He hated the coding that compelled him to protect his hatchlings, hated that it made him want to be around Megatron, hated that the fragger didn’t let him, even him closer… but the hatchlings, some of them at least grew on him, even from the distance. His ones, the jet guessed, the ones he sired on Megatron. There were always a number of them popping up from under heavy armour when he spoke and he did see quite a few wing-nubs flashing and flapping. 

“But… their plating is so soft yet… and the dust damages them… and we have no fuel here, not enough for all of them!”

“Then bring me fuel, you sycophant!”

Starscream hopped back at the roar, wings dipping slightly, wringing his servos again. It seemed that Megatron’s carrier coding was still in full force, not surprising really, with how many sick hatchlings he had in that sling. Which they still didn’t know, not even Soundwave, but the other mech took it much calmer than Starscream. How could he stay away for so long, the jet didn’t know – he had to have the same coding that urged him to stay and hover and try to convince Megatron to relocate to a better place, risking his Master’s wrath in the process and neglecting his other duties. 

“I will get some, My Liege.” – he bowed low, sneaking some glances at the little ones – “but there aren’t much around here to get. I still suggest the northern place, where…”

“Shut up and get the fuel! Or are you so incompetent you can’t even find a fuel source?”

“I got the tanker last time, have I not? The one you scanned?” 

Starscream put as much derision into his tone as he could – and he could pack a lot. That the supreme leader of the Decepticons transformed not into a jet, not into a tank, not into anything worthy or even useful, but a rusted, creaking… tanker truck? It frankly boggled his processor and made him furious. He hated his own form too that he had scanned, because it made him ugly in root form – but at least it could fly and in the air it was adequate for a human-made jet. With his own Cybertronian engines, he could push it to tolerable speeds. But a truck…?

“Then go and get me more!”

Megatron raised both arms, displaying talons and stepped towards him and Starscream wisely fled. Hopping into the air was familiar and the transformation sequence a balm on his dusty frame. Yes, for a human craft it was a tolerable one, he thought as he pushed it to its limits and swept up into the clear blue sky, shedding red dust behind him. Despite of his worries, it took him a mere joor or two – and some joyflight in the clear sky to calm his coding - to find another tanker convoy, dispose the fleshies in it and lift the blasted thing into the air. Only the tank part this time – he wasn’t built to lift trucks and Megatron didn’t need another one to scan. He of course drank his own tank full from the one he left behind.

He was surprised to see the decrepit camp empty as he returned. Megatron was still damn near immobile with the hatchlings crawling all over his frame and it would take a very good reason to transform and drive away. The jet wished he could have seen it, if only to laugh himself silly at the sight. He had seen a hatchling-carrying mech transform once and it was hilariously funny – a single plate or part moving and contorting at a time, painfully slowly so the hatchlings could scoot over from its path, the fully transformation sometimes taking as much as an orn and showed parts one did not normally show to another mech.

Which must have been the reason Megatron did it while Starscream was away, the jet pondered as he flew low and slow to follow the tire tracks. Red-grey rocks grew slowly in the distance and he soon guessed them to be the goal of the truck. Much as Megatron scoffed at him for the idea of relocating, he still took it. He couldn’t not to, really, once Starscream pointed it out – protective codes cared not a whit if one was the supreme leader of the Decepticons, Slagmaker of the universe or whatnot – they demanded the best protection for the hatchlings and while three giant robots had little to fear in the open desert, the tiny and soft-plated hatchlings had plenty.

Starscream landed at the base of the rocks, approaching them on foot, spotting Megatron immediately. The hulking mech was sitting with his back to a stony outcropping, damaged helm leaned back and a Scalpel working on it, optics shuttered; his place in the protection of some more rocks cropping up in irregular half-circles around him, sheltering him from the worst of the wind and dust. Most of the hatchlings were out, sunning on his plating all over, their tiny claws gripping armour edges not to fall, their little frames sprawling on warm, dark plating. The sling was open too and more optics glanced out from its depths, tiny frames all over each other, their owners still too weak to extricate themselves and too afraid to leave the safety of the tarp.

A couple of the bravest hatchlings even left the safety of his frame and played with rocks not far from him. Starscream was happy to see that – it meant Megatron might let him closer now, the fierce coding that drove him relentlessly since emergence was finally relenting enough to let the little ones down. The jet was no stranger to the coding and recognized its signs easily. Skyfire, the hulking, big, docile shuttle was just as fierce and protective of his brood in the first few orns as Megatron. Starscream was miffed back then and gained quite a few dents and scratches when he tried to push the issue – he was the sire and Skyfire chased him away? Unacceptable, he thought back then. Until he had learned better.

“My Lord… I brought fuel.” – he set down the tank near enough so Megatron could reach it.

But then, he would never know how it changed the carrying mechs. Only the biggest mechs got into heat and them so rarely that a long-living mech might get one in all his function, and then they got carrying and birthing hatchlings – every smaller mecha was relegated to the role of siring their clutches. Starscream didn’t mind it at all. To be encumbered with hundreds of hatchlings and nearly unable to move around, fuel and fuel and fuel incessantly so he could feed the little ones? No thanks, he’d rather take siring and be able to fly. And wasn’t it fun to top the mighty Megatron who not only let him, but basically demanded it?

Red optics lit up and Megatron grunted acknowledgement, moved carefully and lifted the tank, drinking deeply, topping up his tanks with the vile human fuel. They could drink it, their tanks could refine it into usable energon – but the hatchlings’ couldn’t. They felt instinctly that it was fuelling time though, even the smallest, least developed ones and started to swarm and squirm all over him like a horde of hungry scraplets. As soon as he was full, Megatron put down the half-empty tank, nicked a small energon tube in his servo and held it over the tiny ones in the sling. 

As the droplets of pink fuel fell the sick, deformed and weak hatchlings got more energetic too. Tiny mouths gaped upward to catch the drops, minuscule glossas licked the pink smears from Megatron’s plating, from each other, blindly craving for the energy they so sorely needed – and as they got more and more, their movement became firmer, surer, their struggles for the life-giving energy got stronger. There were even more than Starscream estimated at first. Of course they were tiny, they all were smaller than even a scraplet, so a lot of them fit into the sling. Megatron continued to feed them with his own energon and the healthier ones on his frame started to get impatient, filling the air with demanding chittering.

Starscream sneaked closer and closer, cautious and hesitant, but not hiding his movement from Megatron, who followed him with narrowed optics, but said nothing. Several of the little ones riding on the truckformer’s shoulder-guard turned towards the jet, red optics checking him out, chittering, wanting to know whether he could also provide fuel… and when the jet reached out towards them with a long arm and open servo, Megatron didn’t bat it away. Starscream saw many of the ones with tiny wing-nubs inch closer to his open palm – they had to feel his field, his sparkbeat familiar and didn’t fear him.

Gathering a servoful of them, a few dozen or so, Starscream scooted back a bit. No reason to test Megatron’s nonexistent patience by being too close to his mostly flared, open plating and his brood that was only partly Starscream’s. He brought his palms closer, opened the mask and lightly bit his glossa to draw energon, spraying the hatchlings with the pink fuel. They reacted energetically, clamouring and competing for the valuable droplets and Starscream watched them with the same fascination he used to watch his first brood, ages ago when Skyfire first allowed him close to them. The little ones had no colours or individual shapes yet, their plating a soft, malleable metal in uniform, light grey and the single aspect setting some apart were the wing-nubs or their absence.

In his palm all but one had those and Starscream grinned – and it wasn’t a nice grin.The lone grounder among his brood that had to be Soundwave’s and the jet smirked nastily at it, moving the dripping fuel away from its direction. Let it crave futilely… its sire should be around to care for it, but trust Soundwave to be able to ignore his coding. Anyhow, it was not his concern.

“If you hurt any single one, Starscream, I will kill you slowly and painfully.” – the growl came closer than he was comfortable with and Starscream scooted back another step.

“No, Master, I would never…!”

The lie came easily. Though coding has urged him to protect and nurture the hatchlings – and Starscream firmly ignored the part which said ‘and their carrier’ – it was only an inescapable force where his own were concerned. Though he could guess that most were his in this brood. Seekers were famous for being virile and siring hundreds of hatchlings in one go and he was no exception. Skyfire… well, that was fun, even though he could not even walk by the time the shuttle’s heat was satisfied, but together, just the two of them produced nearly seven hundred hatchlings. It was a point of immense pride for Starscream that he could satisfy a shuttle all on his own and manage to achieve a record-sized clutch to boot.

He could have done the same with Megatron, but the fragger didn’t choose him first. Starscream scowled, but he continued to feed the hatchlings in his servo, occasionally gathering a new, hungry batch from Megatron’s plating when the previous group were full. The tyrant did the same, only with far less enthusiasm. His heat and the batch of hatchlings could not have come in a less importune time. Though they did have a saying about that, a version of what humans called Murphy’s law, so it might have just occurred similarly unexpectedly in times back on Cybertron.

It certainly occurred suddenly this time around. In one klik Soundwave was reporting his findings while Starscream looked on bored – in the next Megatron was growling, his optics flashing nearly pink and his engine roaring… and straight after he pushed Soundwave to the ground, Laserbeak flopping up and away frightened and a small hatch opened on the dark frame that Starscream needed a few kliks to place… a panel so small and hidden as to be invisible, but now opening to reveal a port, glistening with lubricants and a heat suddenly suffused the jet’s systems too, in reflexive answer.

But he was not chosen, Soundwave was, and after the initial shock he, too must have realized what happened. His own panel opened and revealed the connector rising from the little port and Megatron descended on it like a processorless drone that heat made out of mechs, no matter how great and vicious otherwise. But Soundwave was a Host and hosts have never made good sires. Too much of their spark-energy went to keep the symbiotic connection with the minibots they had as companions and they couldn’t supply a Carrier in heat with enough material for a sizeable brood. Certainly not one with Megatron’s size and power. Starscream only had to wait a little before Soundwave flopped back strutlessly on the dusty ground and Megatron’s strangely burning optics turned towards him, growling in dissatisfied need.

Starscream rose on long legs, straightening the blasted things fully to appear bigger and cursed the fixed wing he couldn’t flare like the ones in his Cybertronian jet form. His connector was standing erect before he finished displaying himself as a potential sire. Megatron growled again and with his conscious processor, Starscream knew that the tyrant did not want to couple with him, that it would give him too much leeway, leverage in their ages-old dance of power – but there was none other he could choose, none who could even remotely compete with the Seeker in potential. If Shockwave was any closer than the aft end of the planet, Megatron could have called him and the large mech might even satisfied his heat too. If any of the Devastator components were able to sire outside the gestalt, he could have chosen them. Even if Barricade was not a host as well and sterile to boot, he would have rather wanted him. Starscream’s Trine was even farther than Shockwave, near Mars as he remembered, so they were out too. Them, even Starscream would accept as Sire-partners. They could use a few more teleporters and jets in the future.

But as it was, Megatron had no choice. Starscream didn’t even wait for the assent he knew was coming before he was onto the larger mech, momentum and heat-coding helping him to push the fragger back onto his back-plates and perch on melting-hot pelvic plates smugly. There was no heavy blow to dislodge him and that was as good a consent as he would get out of Megatron with his processor so much heat-hazed. The jet rubbed his glistening connector on the rim of the hot port that tried to suck it in and smirked, until the next growl-purr of the powerful engines made him lose the last of his composure, crowing loud into the heat of the human sky.

Starscream smirked as he fed the next batch of his brood, the simple task allowing the priceless memory film run uninterrupted, even as he cooed and chirped to the curious little ones. He tried hard not to cackle out loud when he heard similar sounds from Megatron – the deep, growling vocalizer of the tyrant giving itself to chirping with ill grace. But the hatchlings understood only this and not words yet, so it was necessary at this point. They would soon grow a real vocalizer and start learning glyphs, mangle them and slaughter the sounds as they grew. That part wasn’t fun, he remembered. Well, neither of it would be fun under the circumstances, he supposed, this organic world was bad for hatchlings even the best of times.

The drawing out of the actual coupling wasn’t just pure teasing and smug satisfaction for its own sake – deep inside Starscream’s chassis, a rarely-ever used little tank got to work fast, drawing every erg of energy and every gram of superfluous material from him that he could spare and started to produce his CNA packets. The heat of that production rivalled only the heat of the port that drew him in finally, latching onto his connector with a strength that almost hurt. Starscream tried to thrust in, deeper, despite of the painfully tight grip, fighting to reach the reproductive chamber and deposit what he had togive. He wasn’t aware of the sounds he was making, the racket of screeching shouts as he forced his way deeper in, into the half-willing, half-not wanting him port – but he felt the deep growls shaking the frame under him.

But finally the tight grip slackened and let him in deep enough and he thrust fully in, connecting to the chamber entrance. The tank inside him that got engorged while he fought to get deep enough opened and viscous globules started to move through the connection, sluggishly at firs, but lubricating their own passage by their own jelly-like material that covered and protected the spark-infused, metal-enriched CNA packets he was pushing towards the Carrier’s waiting chamber. Many a tiny future mech, the packets – humans might call them eggs or somesuch - were shunted into the connector, then into Megatron’s inner passage and finally into the waiting chamber itself, where they combined with the Carrier’s strands and created the hatchlings.

Starscream’s connector warmed in his chamber just from remembering it. Cybertronians, unlike most organics, did not couple for any other reason than creating hatchlings, but remembering that act was a pleasant reward in itself. Starscream remembered fondly his similar experience with Skyfire, and another instance during the war with a large bomber – but he would never put his connector into another mech just for… fun? It wouldn’t extend anyhow without another mech’s heat-signals, so the imagined coupling was not even possible. But it was the more precious for its rarity he supposed, especially since he was somewhat familiar with the fleshies' incessant interfacing habits. 

He reached out for the next group of hatchlings to feed, but found none. It was over already? They have fed nearly four hundred hatchlings while he got lost in his memories? And Soundwave could eat rust for not being present for it – the energon he gave to the sparkling contained a trace of his spark signature as well, so even the comms mech’s little ones would get something from him as well, shaping them to his image not to their Sire’s. It wasn’t as satisfying as extinguishing them to let his spark signature survive in the next generation, but a close second. No grounder hatchling would turn into a jet from it, but less frame-specific traits would carry on better.

If it was to be a next generation anyway. Starscream knew that it was far from being assured, even with all the care they could give the little ones. He has, after all, outlived most of his previous broods and he was sure it was the same with Megatron too. In an eons long, fierce war it was inevitable that the less experienced mechs would perish first. It was sad, of course, but it wasn’t like he was attached to his hatchlings in an individual way. They were his brood, but in a hazy, group-like way. He didn’t give them designations and he never followed their lives after they grew out of the youngling frame and coding ceased to demand him of any obligation.

Starscream sat beside Megatron, for once no trace of fear or apprehension in his processor. They sat silently in the slowly setting, still hot sun and let the energetic, fed, happy hatchlings crawl all over their warm plating, using them as jungle gym. They both topped up their tanks with fuel and started converting it for the next feeding. The more they could do that, the faster the little ones would grow, even the damaged ones had a chance to fix their distorted frames and the weak ones could catch up. They still had a passing chance to go through with their plan – if the hatchlings could be left alone for a little while with only Igor and the Scalpels to care for them. But it would be quite some orns before that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote in the comments that I didn't want to 'rewrite' DOTM, but the plot, such as it is, inevitably involves some mentioning of events in the movie and my deviation from them. So the fic's not canon compliant any more.
> 
> Note2: the wildcat mentioned is a caracal
> 
> Note3: yes, Laserbeak too has a hatchling among the brood. Connector is connector and all mechs have the same sized one. *cackles* :-)

For recharge all the hatchlings inevitably returned to Megatron. Every single time. It felt queerly like scraplet swarming coupled with tickle torture for Starscream, but he didn’t dare to so much as twitch for fear of damaging one, until the last of the minuscule talons left his plating. Megatron just looked resigned. Enforced immobility for their volatile and action-oriented leader must have been the Pit itself… but then Starscream remembered that Megatron had to have had at least one brood before, way back when he played Lord High Protector to Optimus Prime, so he had some experience. But knowledge helped only so much when hundreds of tiny claws and pedes swarmed over one’s plating, dived under it and by the look of it, choose recharging places on every sensitive inner part Cybertronians owned. Megatron’s never very shiny plating looked like he had recently weathered a particularly bad sandstorm and had an acid rain to wash it down. 

Starscream had a little free time while the hatchlings recharged, so he decided to do a patrol, maybe grab a new tank of fuel and generally stretch his wings. Kicking the annoying Igor aside he jumped into the air and for a few, glorious joors forgot the hatchlings, the plans, everything that weighed on his processor – and played in the sharp, clean air of the night that was probably the only saving grace of this organic-infested, generally far too wet and wretched planet. Returning to the camp he found Megatron in the midst of another feeding, the impatient, clamoring chittering of the healthier hatchlings a sound he could hear from a distance, while he tended to the ones in the sling.

“Come here at once, you imbecile and take some!” 

“At once, Master! I brought more fuel.”

“At least your rusted processor is good for something…”

“What…?!”

Starscream showed his fangs, but he couldn’t do anything while Megatron had the hatchlings and they both knew it. His processor heated and swam just for the idea of harming the Carrier of his brood and he quickly tried to think about safer subjects. Taking some hatchlings and feeding them seemed to restore the truce between them. For some time. Then Megatron started to take the small ones out of the sling and examine them one by one. Starscream wanted to shriek. The hatchlings were so tiny in his servos, so vulnerable, the vicious talons so threatening… he couldn’t bear to watch it any more.

“You’re doing it all wrong!”

Megatron’s helm came up, flashing fangs at him. His talons froze, the tiny, red-opticked hatchling between two needle-sharp talontips too in fright. 

“Because you can do it better?”

It had wing nubs. Starscream focused on this fact for resolve and cautiously inched closer. His own talons were at least retractable. Gently, the jet picked out the frozen, terrified hatchling that didn’t even dare to chirp in distress from between the dangerous talons and lifted it closer to his optics. It was so tiny he had trouble focusing on it properly. Their kind never did well with such tiny, inconsequential things, Starscream needed to recall long-forgotten scientific protocols to properly spiral back his lenses to see the details of the hatchling sharply enough. 

The poor hatchling hung between his digits, still frightened, but a few weak trills left his proto-vocalizer now that no sharp objects surrounded it. One of its wing-nubs was broken at the base, the metal puffy and discoloured around the future wing-hinge. Left like this he’d never be able to develop real wings and scan for a flier. Starscream laid the hatchling on his left palm face down, transformed the talons out on his right servo and gently picked the deformed wing-nub between two. The chittering from the little one turned frantic and pained and Megatron loomed over them, growling threateningly.

Starscream didn’t have time for the enraged Carrier though. With a quick flip he rotated the tiny flap to its correct position and hid his own flinch at the pained, tiny shriek of misery. It had hurt, he knew, but this way, the hatchling had a chance to regain use of it in the future. The jet quickly dropped the curled-up, shaking hatchling to Megatron’s palm and scooted backwards several healthy steps. The rest of the brood fell silent and only the tiny cries of pain echoed in their little camp. Megatron brought his palm up to his chest plates and opened it to a crack, his spark bathing the crying sparkling in sharp, bright light. It looked dangerous, but actually it soothed the pain and the tiny hatchling slowly uncurled and luxuriated in the warm rays of pure energy. Hundreds of tiny, red optics blinked in concert from the tyrant’s shoulders, hundreds of hatchlings suddenly wanted a taste of that light, the ball of energy they all came from – but they didn’t move.

Megatron cast an unreadable look at Starscream.

“Optimus never did that.”

“Well, you used to have medics for these things, right?” – Starscream stayed afar, but his wings relaxed and he flicked a meandering Scalpel away – “These… drones can’t even fix your helm properly.”

Megatron grunted, his tense stance relaxing slowly as the hatchling’s cries turned into quiet chitterings and his tiny field smoothed out. He shut his chest-plates and placed the hatchling back into the sling. Then he gestured with his helm for Starscream to come closer. The leader of the Decepticons would never ask for help but his coding apparently decided that it was necessary. 

“There are more like it.”

They had repeated the process dozens of times in the next joors, Megatron reacting with the same aggression each and every time. It was tiresome, especially as some of the hatchlings had conditions he couldn’t fix. The blunt injuries, like the first one, Starscream knew were from too fast emergence and inevitable in every brood. Skyfire had fretted over every single one of them and blamed himself, despite every assurance that it was, in a way, natural and the hatchlings, once helped healed very quickly and without lasting effects.

Much worse was to see the ones with coding defects that he couldn’t do anything about. The missing optics, limbs, vocalizers. The deformed ones. The so tiny ones that they couldn’t even had proper inner parts to survive. Those, he was told were not natural, they came from the Carrier being damaged, in frame, spark or coding. Megatron obviously had plenty of all three during the war and it showed in the brood. Starscream knew that the kindest act would be to extinguish these hatchlings, but he didn’t even try to say it. Some would deactivate in the coming orns anyhow and the rest of themy wouldn’t be able to keep up with the healthy ones. 

For now, they went back to the sling. All except one, who grasped Starscream’s digit with all its limbs so strongly that he couldn’t separate it without damaging it further. The jet stood there hesitant and unsure what to do, palm held outward, one digit pointing up and an abnormally thin, tall hatchling attached to it in a full-frame hug, like adhered with a glue. No amount of bemused chittering and gentle prying was able to move it, it didn’t even move when all the rest of the critters swarmed over to colonize Megatron’s plating for a recharge. Starscream blinked at it a few times, unsure what to do and it blinked back with owlishly large red optics. 

“Don’t just stand there, like a glitched drone.” – there was amusement undercurrent in Megatron’s tone – “You have to recharge too.”

“B-but…it’s… what do I…?”

“Well, obviously it’s glitched too to want to stay with you.”

Starscream scowled back at the slagger but sat down, holding his servo with the hatchling awkwardly to his cockpit. Maybe the closeness of his spark would do the trick like Megatron did with the others. The tiny critter obviously enjoyed being close to spark-energy, but it didn’t show any inclination to let him go in the next millennia. It had wing nubs too, but so small, he only saw them from up close. At first he thought the little one to be Soundwave’s, but obviously that wasn’t the case. Well. Starscream locked his servo-joints so he wouldn’t crush it accidentally and prepared to recharge. He had done to the critter all he could, now it was up to it to fend for himself if it choose to be away from its Carrier…

Five similar orns later they were both aware that the plans for takeover were slowly going to the Pit. The hatchlings grew all right, but there was no way they could leave them alone for as long as it’d take to go through with their plans. Theoretically, Megatron could tend to them while Starscream went to help Sentinel… but the tyrant did not trust in either of them for such an important step. Besides, the jet acquired a very insistent and clinging scraplet of his own, one that seemed completely unwilling to leave the Seeker for any reason. The thin one. It fit into his cockpit all right, so he could at least fly; but going into a battle with it – Starscream couldn’t even think this thought fully before his coding rebelled and made him nauseous. 

Though the pillars had no expiry date on them, they both knew that it was only a matter of time before Sentinel gave himself away – the old mech had an ego rivalling in size with Cybertron – no, more, like with Jupiter, Starscream amended his thoughts – and he couldn’t act to save his life. What would Optimus Prime do with him once his secret was discovered, even Megatron couldn’t tell.

“He’s very different from the mech I had known.” – he grumbled as they fed the hatchlings yet again under the hot African sun – “and takes betrayal very hard.”

“I know somemech like that.”

The flash of fangs at this time were more a sign of him getting the joke than a threat, this much Starscream was sure. They somehow grew closer to each other in the long, boring orns of tending the hatchlings, the feedings that seemed to run together, the bigger, stronger scraplets with hardening plates wandering farther and farther, so Starscream acquired a new duty – hatchling-hunting among rocks where the even the smallest boulders gave plenty of hiding places for the tiny critters. To add insult to injury, the local wildlife seemed to grow bolder too and though the adult mechs didn’t care much about the roaming animals – though Megatron sometimes roared back to the biggest ones when their herd came close for reasons Starscream never bothered to ask - there were predators among them too.

One orn Starscream woke up from recharge to an unholy racket nearby. All weapons systems armed before he even jumped to his pedes, the shrewd red optics were looking for the source immediately. Megatron was way behind him standing up, his movements still slowed by the number of hatchlings hanging on his armour. Two hopping steps that his folding legs were actually great for and Starscream was over the large rocks that protected them from the wind…

… and he laughed, a sound strange and harsh through his mask, transformed his missile launcher back into his arm, petted his clinging passenger’s tiny helm absentmindedly and relaxed.

“What is it?”

“Well… I think… I think it was some sort of a… wild cat? Reddish fur, tufted audials? Dunno what it’s called.”

“You think? What did it do?”

“Probably tried to eat a hatchling.” – he was nearly cackling.

Megatron’s growl came from far too close and Starscream hurried to placate his protective coding.

“I think it is safe to say… that organic cats can’t eat hatchlings.”

Starscream moved closer to the grisly scene. One hatchling had its arm broken, but his satisfied, almost smug field more than surpassed the pain of it. It, and three others neatly tore the cat thing apart and were now in the process of dismantling its skeleton, that they probably took for the mech inside a softer armour. The wildcat was probably not alive any more, but the hatchlings were nearly covered with… ewww… organic blood and red-furred, meaty bits. 

“These will recharge on you, My Liege, this orn.” – he wanted none of that… mess on his plating and Megatron didn’t care about his appearance and they had nothing to clean the hatchlings with. But he did feel an immense pride for the critters. True, it was just an organic cat, not even a truly big one, but a predator of its kind and they fought it and won. They were his. They were warriors. Even Megatron grunted appreciatively behind him and the hatchlings felt their field and looked proud of themselves.

Then they both looked up as transformation sounds came from the other side and Soundwave stepped forth from among the boulders. The stoic mech’s optics were on Megatron, not even acknowledging Starscream or the popping up hatchlings on both their shoulder-guards.

“Lord Megatron. Soundwave reporting.”

“What news you have?”

“Sentinel Prime exposed. Placed in custody. Pillars with the Autobots.”

Megatron’s angry snarl sent all the hatchlings to hiding, but he kept his composure enough not to move and harm them. But Soundwave wasn’t finished.

“Lord Megatron…” – it was rare to see the usually stoic mech hesitate – “Optimus Prime… with hatchlings.”

“WHAT?!?”

Starscream hissed. It was bad news as far as Megatron’s temper was concerned. Otherwise good, because it made the Autobots just as unable to do battle as themselves, but given the two faction-leaders’ shared history… but in a way, it was logical. Those two used to have a bond and however broken it was now from both sides, the echo of it would be with them forever. Once Megatron got into heat, it was only logical that his former… mate went into it as well. 

“Who are his sires?”

Two sets of incredulous red optics snapped to him and it was almost funny how, in a klik, all the hatchlings’ followed suit. It was almost… queer to be stared at by several hundred red optics but let nomech say that Starscream didn’t enjoy the attention and it might defuse Megatron’s immediate fury that so often led him act immaturely. 

“Most hatchlings: Ironhide. Rest: various.”

Ohh, what would Starscream give to have his servo on the walking cannon’s hatchlings in the future! They would probably make better Decepticons than many who wore the purple badge. Too bad that Autobots didn’t have fliers.

“Human accomplices deactivated or in protective custody. Plan impossible to execute. Shockwave requests orders.”

“So what do we do now? Trusting in a Prime proved to be futile – again, I might add.” – Starscream asked wryly, while lifting his very own hatchling to his shoulder so it could see better.

Megatron scowled, but his anger appeared to dissipate quickly.

“The hatchlings change the situation. We obviously can’t fight… but nor can the Autobots. So we might as well have a formal truce. Optimus would gladly grasp a chance of that and the hatchlings will get better fuel and medical care.”

Starscream nodded, optics flashing. He petted the little one’s helm on his shoulder and deftly caught another who was about to disappear among the crevices. His smirk was not nice though.

“Yes, obviously. And while they grow complacent and soft with the hatchlings, we prepare for the times after they grow.”

“There’s that too.”

He watched with fascination as Soundwave hesitantly, with obvious reluctance turned his gaze from their leader to the hatchlings on his armour. Some of the grounder ones moved to the gray shoulders, checking him out, but they were not as enthusiastic as with Starscream – they didn’t know this mech yet, wasn’t sure what to expect from him.

“Feeding them helps.”

He suggested smugly, wanting to see dignified, reserved Soundwave with hatchlings smear his armour with energon and crawl all over him. It was obvious from his sharp look that Soundwave was not looking forward to it, but Megatron has already deposited a servoful into his arms and he would never defy their master. Laserbeak crowed sadly from a nearby rock. The condor mech too had a hatchling or two within the brood, but it was as yet impossible to tell them apart from Starscream’s. Wing-nubs were wing-nubs at this stage and would be so for some time yet.

Starscream cackled and the tiny critter that adopted him cackled back with the same sound. Yes, this one was very much like him. If any survived, Starscream decided, this one would be among them. After all, he was a survivor too.


	3. Chapter 3

“But what do we do if the Cons attack?”

“We will do our best.” – Optimus couldn’t give him more than that, but they had a few mechs able to fight… and they had to hope that their efforts would be enough – “It is highly fortunate that some mechs have arrived lately.”

He certainly couldn’t fight any more and presumably not for the next few… vorns? Optimus remembered perfectly the last time he has seen a real brood of hatchlings and the Carrier couldn’t leave them alone until they were much larger, well on their way to younglings. And that was in the well-defended, luxurious palace of the Primes, surrounded by guards and medics and enough helping mechs to make a small army. And still, his mate, a warrior himself, Lord Protector of the planet did not let them out of his sight for vorns. Such was the nature of the Carrier coding. It didn’t care for wars or duties. 

Like it didn’t care for the inappropriate circumstances now, for whatever mysterious reason. The heat caught Optimus completely by surprise and caused all the inevitable results. Now, he had set up camp in the biggest hangar of the base, his Autobots worked night and day to seal it completely from the outside so no hatchlings could leave even accidentally and no human could enter, even deliberately – Director Mearing was most insistent, but in this matter, Optimus was not willing to bend. Only a handful of their friends could even know about the hatchlings but even they couldn’t actually see them. His coding rated aliens, even small, organic ones as a worse threat than the Decepticons and Optimus could never forgive himself if he shot any humans entering the hangar. Or Ironhide did.

Ironhide was still scowling, not in the least placated by the answer. As the Sire of at least half the brood he took their safety personally, occasionally even chasing away the other Sires. Sideswipe was understandably most indignant about it, complaining loudly to Optimus whenever he could get close. He and Mirage both contributed a lot and felt it was unfair from Ironhide not to let them guard their own hatchlings. 

“Ironhide, we can’t do anything else but keep it secret and hope that Sentinel’s fate threw their plans into disarray. As far as we know they have less mechs here, on Earth than we do.”

“But Prime…”

“If you continue to stress him, I’ll forbid you to come in.”

Ironhide growled even as he turned towards the newcomer, but Ratchet wasn’t intimidated by it. The medic had his own investment – so to speak – in the brood besides being their only medic, and as events already proved he wouldn’t hesitate to go through with his threat, even to actually throw Ironhide out. Optimus smiled thinly. That was a memorable occasion. It required all three other Sires besides Ratchet, but Ironhide simply couldn’t watch the medic set the injured hatchlings right and had to be forcibly removed from the hangar. Those small ones were now in a hastily attached pouch, since they fared best in direct contact with him and were unable to hold on to his armour like the rest of the brood.

Optimus hoped that they would get stronger soon. He loved them all, despite of the unexpected occurrence of their coming, despite of the difficulties the little ones have placed them from the Cons. They were a ray of hope for their kind, a possible future generation… but only if they all survived the coming vorns and that directly depended on the hatchlings and even more importantly their Sires able to function independently. That Megatron wouldn’t leave them peacefully raise a brood of hatchlings, Optimus was more than sure. It was a dilemma he couldn’t solve yet, much as he tried.

The bravest of the brood were already leaving him for kliks to discover their surroundings, but every move another mech made in the hangar sent them swarming and scrambling up on his frame and diving under his flared plates. Optimus had to keep himself still by sheer force of will at times like those – the fast scramble of tiny pedes and servos were incredibly tickling, especially on his sides and grill. He was glad that none of the hatchlings decided to climb up to his helm; he had a suspicion that he wouldn’t take them grabbing his antennae nearly so motionless. 

As Ratchet came closer the braver of the little ones popped up in rows along his shoulders and arms. The medic described him the sight of those neat rows of tiny pinpricks of blue as distinctly eerie and somewhat unnerving. They usually even blinked together, making their spectacle even more… queer. Optimus only saw them at the very edge of his field of vision, as they sat or hang on him, but it evoked memories in him he’d rather forgot. Vicious-looking dark grey shoulder guards rose from the depth of his memory-banks, rows of red and blue optics nestling in the folds and curves, blinking at him when he moved…

Optimus shook his helm to dispel the memory. That brood was long gone in the chaos of war and the twinge of pain he felt was more for the peaceful times than for the actual little ones sitting on Megatron’s shoulder in the memory-vision. These orns Megatron was a danger, an unknown now that Sentinel’s abominable plan was discovered and thwarted. There were news of the Devastator components wreaking havoc here and there, but they were all gone by the time the Wreckers could reach the affected places. Thank Primus they were not at the base when his heat hit, so the Autobots at least had a fighting force able to leave the base. Laserbeak and Soundwave disappeared too and Optimus worried about them more than the roughhousing ones – those only caused a lot of damage, but were incapable of making covert plans.

“Stop worrying! The hatchlings can sense your mood and get upset too!”

Ratchet’s sharp voice brought Optimus out of his thoughts. Yes… not only was he completely unable to fight but even worrying about the Cons was denied to him, as it greatly disturbed the hatchlings too. Even now the choir of distressed chirping was rising and Optimus quickly tried to think more pleasant thoughts, smoothing out his field as well to calm them. His vocalizer almost hurt to issue the answering-calming chirps and it didn’t help that Sideswipe was cackling behind the medic at the cute sounds. Momentary annoyance flashed through him until the medic spoke up again.

“Feeding time…”

“You still haven’t found a better way of giving them nourishment, Ratchet?”

“To all four hundred and ten of them? No, can’t say I have.”

Ratchet have tried, he really did. Producing such tiny bottles the hatchlings could drink from were actually not even that hard, since humans had baby-bottles that were almost exactly the right size; but holding the tiny, breakable things properly to the hungry mouths went way beyond the abilities of the mechs with digits too large, strong and blunt to be of use. Bumblebee could do it if he was careful, Ratchet with his specialized digits also and the Arcee components if they took the patience to attempt it… but there were hundreds of hatchlings that clamoured loudly to be fed every few joors and the bottles were just way too slow for that. The hatchlings themselves were as yet unable to hold their bottles; they either crumbled the flimsy plastic things or dropped them outright and fuel in either case still got splashed everywhere.

Hence the primitive, ancient way of nicking a fuel line and spraying the swarming hatchlings with it, letting them lick the energon from armour and each other… and dealing with Ratchet grumbling about dirt and infections and slagging primitive places to raise a brood… and Ironhide setting off every time it was feeding time, because, as he said, he would defend them with his life, but feeding hatchlings and cooing to them was just not in his coding. The old warrior even took Sideswipe’s needling him about it, rather than stay and produce any single one of those ‘infernal sounds’ as he put it. 

The two younger warriors though, loved every klik of the feedings. The first time Optimus saw a servoful of hatchlings climbing Mirage’s arms near his blades he nearly had a spark-attack. But the red warrior handled them with exquisite care and was mindful of his own dangerous attachments – and no hatchling were harmed then and since and Optimus slowly started to trust them as they fed the hatchlings, bickered lightly and entertained him and the little ones as well.

“These are mine, I’m sure. See, Mirage?”

“They look just the same as the rest.”

“No, I see a difference! Here, and… here?”

Mirage peered closer to the currently pink-splattered, tiny grey sparklings in Sideswipe’s palm over his own group.

“I can see nothing dissimilar.”

The two warriors were similar in build and even colours, so Optimus seriously doubted that any differences could be seen yet. Even to his own optics, the sparklings looked all the same, the only differences being in their sizes. Wings would show up as nubs, but doorwings only much later, like all alt-mode kibble. Grounder hatchling usually looked the same for some time after emergence. Even their size differences were measured in centimetres yet, barely noticeable. It would be a long time yet before individual shapes and colours would manifest.

“They tend to be drawn to their Sires.” He offered when Sideswipe looked forlorn at Mirage’s indifference and the young, impulsive warrior perked up immediately.

“See? See!? They are mine!”

“They *might* be yours.” Mirage responded, but he, too looked a bit differently at the ones on his palm.

“But they also tend to be drawn to anyone feeding them, so…”

Ratchet suddenly stiffened, disbelief showing on his frowning faceplates. 

“What is it, Ratchet?”

The medic deposited his share of hatchlings onto Optimus and stepped at a communications console they have set up when they built up the base as their permanent home. 

“A klik, Optimus… We’ve got a peculiar signal, I have to check.”

Sideswipe moved beside him, his servos still full of interested, chirping hatchlings and peered at the console.

“Wow. That’s Soundwave.”

Both warriors visibly bristled at the name, both struggling not to transform weapons out while holding their hatchlings. Optimus’s sharp invent echoed in the sudden silence as the hatchlings too picked up the sudden change in mood and collectively fell silent, drawing deeper under his plates.

“Confirmed.” – Ratchet was still frowning – “He’s not even masking himself. It’s like… he wants to contact us.”

“Never a good sign with him.”

“Nothing is a good sign with that slagger.”

“Language, Sideswipe…”

“They don’t understand it now, right?”

“But they will and you had better start not using that language.”

Sideswipe’s look of mischief worried Optimus almost as much as Soundwave’s strangely detectable transmissions.

“He’s transmitting a message on Cybertronian frequencies, like he wants us to pick it up.”

“Can you decode it?”

“I think so. It doesn’t appear to be difficult.”

“That’s… unlike Soundwave.”

They were all frowning by this time and the hatchlings have all disappeared under Optimus’s armour, keeping silent. 

“It… it just… can’t be true.” – Ratchet’s tone was completely incredulous.

“What is it?”

“A declaration of… truce?”

“WHAT?!?”

“How?”

“Truce???”

“That can’t be…”

“Well, that’s what the message says.” – Ratchet blinked once, twice and turned towards Optimus, calling him over in a strange, tight voice – “And there’s an image capture attached.”

Optimus stood up slowly, mindful of the little ones on him and stepped to the console. Sideswipe and Mirage were politely after him, peering at the screen too.

The image was almost exactly what he remembered from megavorns ago. Only the rows of tiny pinpricks riding the grey shoulders were now all red, instead of the mixed one of that long gone brood and many appeared to be winged. 

“Well, how about that! Ole’ Megs too?”

Optimus sighed and an invisible weight has just lifted from his shoulders. At least, if it was true, they didn’t have to worry about the Cons. 

The hatchlings felt his relief and popped up everywhere on his frame. For the first time after the elation of their emergence, Optimus dared to hold a real hope that these little ones might actually live to see their colours and alt modes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of headcanon for this fic:  
> Okay, so since it's Bayverse, I had gone a little differently about things like bonds and such. The way I get it Optimus and Megatron were co-rulers and mates (and had one brood together) before the war, but that was ended when Megatron decided that he could do a better job alone. So their bond was broken, but in Bayverse they are a lot more casual about sparks, so it didn't mean more than say a divorce. Also, when a mech is in heat he will get a brood, so it's not even a question. Who will be the sire or sires: if two mechs are mates, bonded, then they produce the brood together. If the mech in heat has no mate, he chooses a sire and maybe other sires too, whom the coding considers the best for siring and protection. His coding decides how much sires are enough. A typical brood is around 2-300 hatchlings, but the larger the mech in heat and the more sires he has, the larger the brood will be. Theoretically any mech can get into heat, but practically only large ones do - coding cares for the ability to physically carry/protect/nurture the brood. But all mechs can be sires, no matter the size. So Optimus and Megatron can both get into heat or be sires - in the fic Megs is shown to carry twice, but for all that he could be a sire too. I just found it interesting the idea that he should be the carrier. :-)


End file.
